


Remember

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, M/M, Oops, Sad Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 13:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18477625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Varian Wrynn awoke one morning to an unexpected visitor in his bed.





	Remember

Even a subtle shift of weight on the mattress was enough to stir Varian from his sleep.

Blinking once, twice, he took in the contents of his room, the grey light sliding beneath his curtains and striping the nightstand just beside his pillow. It had to be about four, maybe five. Varian wasn’t particularly surprised; he was no stranger to sleepless nights or mornings shattered by a pound at his door. But that wasn’t the case this time. The dewy chill of dawn felt miles away from his silk duvet, and there was something– a pleasant, warm someone– resting just behind his back.

The likes of which he hadn’t felt in years.

Shifting onto his back, he let himself sink into the mattress, then glanced to the left. Someone let out a grunt, and then two eyes– like candle flames sparking, then swelling to life– flashed in the darkness. “...You awake?” 

He knew that voice. 

“Garrosh?” He had expected himself to sound shocked. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that something was wrong, that this was off, but like the morning chill his dread refused to come. He only felt the warmth, the fingers that rested gently against his arm, and the breath that tickled his ear when the orc leaned over to speak:

“Yeah. Surprised?” 

It might have been mockery, but it didn’t sound like it; none of the pieces seemed to match up. What he normally would have expected from the orc– the antagonism, a sneer in the dark as his hand wrapped around his throat– felt as unlikely as a dream, and he didn’t complain. Instead he rolled to the left and propped himself up on his elbow. Garrosh’s teeth flashed in the sliver of light that poured in on his pillow.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, but his tone suggested otherwise. Hair draping across Garrosh’s cheek, he leaned down and rested their foreheads together. ‘How are you going to leave?’ He wanted to add, but it seemed unimportant. What mattered now was the orc beneath him: the way his eyes danced in the dawn, the heat of his body pressed against Varian’s long-empty bed.

The way his lips twitched up into a grin, and the soft, easy words with which he spoke: “I’m not concerned.”

“Neither am I,” Varian admitted, pressing the palm of his hand to Garrosh’s cheek. He couldn’t remember ever feeling the jagged peak of his cheekbone, or the waxy ridge of a scar that cut across his face. For all Varian knew, he could have given him that scar. But he couldn’t remember, and Garrosh offered no indication, simply watching him, blowing aside a lock of hair that stuck to his lower lip. Varian smiled, and Garrosh returned it. A feeling of contentment welled in the pit of his chest.

“I never thought you were ugly,” he confessed. The words came on the heels of a sigh, giving him no time to decide whether they were wise or if they would spoil the mood. And while Garrosh tensed, regarding his face for a moment that felt like an hour, the snort that followed put his mind at ease. 

“I knew,” he smirked. His tusk nuzzled Varian’s cheek, and his lips, now moist with the remnants of his laughter, pressed against the curve of his ear. “You were bad at hiding it.”

“Yeah?” With a shake of his head, the king shifted, then came to rest with his face nestled against Garrosh’s neck. He breathed for a moment, and enjoyed the musky scent: like sun and sand on a relentless summer day. He had mocked that smell, more than once, but now, both forbidding and familiar, it coaxed him into a daze. 

They stayed like that for a few moments. Taking a cue from Varian, it seemed, Garrosh brought his hand to rest against the back of his head. His fingers slid through Varian’s hair, not grasping or yanking like they once might have– like they had in Varian’s dreams back in Northrend– but instead following their trail from his neck to his back. The human rode the rise and fall of his chest, and for a time it seemed he might fall back to sleep. But then–

“I never hated you,” Garrosh mumbled. Varian felt his voice swell beneath his cheek, far more audible than the sound that left his lips. “I hated myself for how I felt. You know.”

“I wanted to kill you after what you did to Anduin,” Varian countered: neither in exclamation nor retort. It was simply there, like the trail of light stretching out beneath the curtain, or the inhale of breath tickling his ear.

Garrosh answered, “But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why?”

There was another pause. Varian could almost hear the hum of his city coming to life outside, the first glimmer of the day to come. He would rise, put on his armor, and don the mantle of king. From his throne, he’d make decisions with the weight to impact thousands– no, millions– of people under his charge. But here he was, wrapped in Garrosh’s arms, far too comfortable to admit–

“You know.”

The words faded in the air, then Garrosh turned to kiss the side of his head, “I do.”

And with that, silence set in. Resting one arm on the pillow beside Garrosh’s face, he closed his eyes and focused. Garrosh’s skin was softer than he had expected; the easy way he shifted to give Varian room to lie on his chest, on the other hand, came as no surprise. It felt like he needed to remember every detail, to record them in the back of his mind for some purpose. Concern yielded quickly to contentment, and with Garrosh below, and his silk duvet draped around his shoulders, he quickly forgot where the expected ended and the unfamiliar began.

There was only that embrace, and the gentle ebb of Garrosh’s breath beneath him. 

Slipping his hand from the mattress to Garrosh’s neck, he followed the curve with his finger, tracing his jaw, then his throat, then the bulge of his collarbone extending out to a well-muscled shoulder. He didn’t need to look to draw out the design of his tattoos: he remembered, though he had no basis for understanding them. The stripe grasping around from his back, then the swirl that ended somewhere near the middle of his chest. Varian’s thumb found a nipple there and toyed with the ring pierced through it: absentmindedly, as if he had nowhere else better to be. 

With that, Garrosh’s breath caught in his throat, and he mumbled, “It was annoying.” Tucking a strand of hair behind Varian’s ear, he turned to watch him, the fire in his eyes rekindled. Dawn, now seeping through a gap in the curtains, glowed on his skin, spreading from his scarred cheek to the slight scowl on his lips. Glancing up at him, Varian couldn’t help but think how striking he looked.

“What?” Edging up to kiss his lips, Varian draped his leg back over him, coming to straddle his waist. Their chests pressed together, and suddenly Varian felt small.

“Of all the people in the world,” Garrosh shook his head, but his lips never left Varian’s, “All the orcs I had to choose from, it was _you_.”

“It was.” 

For something that felt like it had been buried for years, it came to Varian’s mouth unhindered: as blatant as the sun making its appearance in the east. It lingered between them: between their kiss, Varian thought, recalling how he had leered and snapped that kissing an orc wasn’t possible. But Garrosh’s lips and tusks no longer felt imposing. Their mouths settled together, fitting, like their bodies wrapped in an embrace. Effortless. Lazy. 

His hand moved from Garrosh’s chest to his waist, and he held him, rolling their hips together. Garrosh’s grunt tickled the tip of his nose. 

“Well?” Varian broke the kiss to shift onto his side. Now wrapped in Garrosh’s arm, he had room to explore, to continue his idle descent from the orc’s waist to the slope of his abdomen. It was surprisingly soft, though he could feel the lines and ridges of muscle just beneath the surface, and he lingered, enjoying it, enjoying the way those muscles tensed as he moved to the front of his pants.

“This is why you’re here,” His voice was firm but not insistent; finally, he could ask the question that wouldn’t come before. “Isn’t it?”

“Partly,” Garrosh turned to watch his face. The room had lightened from grey to orange, but a few shadows lingered on the margins. The orc’s fingers passed out of the sunlight to hide beneath his hair.

“Well,” There was a hint of Varian’s old self in that quip– a bite, perhaps, or a sarcastic curl of his lip– but his touch remained light against the front of Garrosh’s pants. “Glad to see you haven’t changed.”

“Are you?”

Even if Varian knew the answer to that question, he was more concerned with the lacings holding closed Garrosh’s pants. He’d dreamed of this before; that much he knew. Back in Dalaran, he had curled under his blanket and furiously palmed his cock, pretending it was Garrosh’s as it twitched and leaked into his touch. There was none of that ferocity now, but his cock swelled against Garrosh’s thigh all the same. 

If the orc noticed, he made no move to press up, waiting, instead, for Varian’s hand to dip into his pants. A small groan formed on Varian’s lips, but his ire failed to rise. If Garrosh was here to take his time then he could wait, too. For some reason, the morning seemed to stretch on for ages, and the idea of it ending– of an interruption, or a meeting stealing him from his blankets– felt far more foreign than the orc pressed into his bed.

And so he kept going, and for once, didn’t snap in retort.

The orc’s cock was even warmer than the rest of him. Varian wrapped his hand around it, rolling his thumb against the head, then stroking back the foreskin as he made his way down to the base. He explored every piercing. From the ring sliding through his slit to the row of studs– five, no, six– from frenum to sac, he wanted to remember them all. His own cock strained against the front of his pants. Beneath him, Garrosh’s hips shifted.

“You changed, though,” Garrosh added. In his careful exploration, Varian had almost forgotten they were talking, but the orc’s voice rumbling in his chest gave him pause, “I never thought you had it in you.”

“I did what I had to,” Varian’s hand kept moving, but he rested his forehead against his cheek, inhaling, lingering, remembering. Garrosh was right: he wasn’t the snarling wolf of a man he used to be, but he hadn’t done it to please Garrosh, either. Somewhere, something had changed, and the yelling and hatred hadn’t felt worth it anymore. He shook his head, then kissed Garrosh’s neck. He abandoned the orc’s cock for a moment to ease his own out of his pants.

There was another pause. Varian caught himself sighing as the warm air met his erection: a gasp that became a growl when he brought it to rest against Garrosh’s shaft. He could barely reach around the two of them; he forgot to sneer, to make some disparaging remark, or to feel inferior when he realized the orc was nearly twice his girth. There was no room for comparison now, no reason. He just settled in, then stroked, then muttered:

“You could have, too, you know.”

“It’s too late.”

It sounded reasonable. It didn’t hit him as off, at least. Perhaps it was the horrors Garrosh had committed, the rage shot in his direction from all sides. The fact his followers seemed to dwindle like boats on the horizon, until not a soul was left to stand in Garrosh’s defense. There had only been him at the trial. The realization sank in the pit of his chest, and he had to rock forward, needing the distraction offered by his palm. Leaning up to look into Garrosh’s eyes, he moved faster, and felt a breath catch in his throat.

The events that happened thereafter started to fall into place. As Garrosh’s hand pressed against the side of his face, he remembered the shackles, clanging and swaying to the steady ‘thud’ of boots crossing the temple. There had been jeers, and chaos, and then–

Garrosh pressed back his head into the mattress, baring his throat to the sun. It had to be seven. Stormwind was as alive as a heartbeat, and here he was, palming the orc who had almost destroyed it, their cocks sliding together and their bodies rocking beneath the covers. He wanted to feel guilty, but he was too warm, too happy. Too caught in a moment he knew couldn’t last beyond the morning.

But why? 

He didn’t care. All that mattered now was kissing him: his cheek, those scars, his lips and the tusks they couldn’t conceal. Tension started to build beneath the base of his shaft, and before he knew it, he was rutting. Feet and thighs skidded against the sheets. The bed rocked and groaned like it hadn’t in years, and between his fingers, Garrosh started to leak. One of them gasped. He didn’t care who. He muffled it with a desperate kiss.

And then, he remembered.

That morning, too, had been bright, glowing gold on the wind-swept plains of Nagrand. He had felt desperate. His heart had clenched in his chest. And the morning sky itself had seemed to mock him, with those glaring moons that refused to hide their faces. 

He bit his lip and tried to hold on to the tension, rolling, needy against Garrosh’s cock.

There had been Thrall, and Khadgar, and–

Garrosh’s fingers gave his hair a tug. Even amidst his cry, it felt wrong, those fingers moving when they hadn’t–

He squeezed closed his eyes, frantic to finish, fraught with a terror that Garrosh would be gone when he looked back down at his pillow. If he could just–

– remember that sun, warm on his face. How it had mocked him while he forced himself to remain impassive. But his stomach had plummeted when he had looked down at–

He growled. The tension built at the base of his cock unfurled, and he jolted forward. Not warm. Not content. Not aware of anything but a lifeless hand and those fearful eyes staring up at the sky.

Garrosh was dead.

And he was alone.

_____________________

Varian shot up from the mattress. The silk duvet fell back, exposing his chest to the morning chill, and his stomach clenched. He was wet: cheeks streaked with tears, nose leaking, a stray strand of hair stuck to the side of his face. His chest was heaving: from terror or pleasure he couldn’t tell. When he tried to rise from the bed, his shoulders shook.

And his face wasn’t the only thing that was wet.

Looking down at his hand, and the front of his sleeping trousers, he let out a curse. Had he really let it go so long since he got himself off, that he was stroking and jerking in his sleep like some kind of _school boy._ Snarling, he was thankful for the distraction. It gave him something to think about, something to blame this on, aside from the tears wetting his face. Swallowing, and trying to breathe, he let his feet hit the floor and made his way to the basin in the corner.

It was barely four now, he decided. There was no sign of light beneath the curtains, no stripes to flicker on the floor as he felt out his basin in the shadows. The water he splashed across his face was cold. He hardly noticed, too taken by the memory of Garrosh and those lost eyes staring up at the sky. 

Still shaking, he bit his lip, and reached to mop up the front of his pants.

It had felt so real: as real as the gulls crying out at the harbor, or the tolling of the four o’clock bell. Why was he letting Garrosh, of all people, haunt his dreams, after all he had done, after all his family had suffered at his hands...?

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to fight it. Standing in the corner, shaking, trying not to sob, the memory was all he had.

It took longer than it should have to finish cleaning. Part of him wondered if it was because he didn’t want to return to the bed– somehow the clammy cold before dawn felt more appropriate now than his silk duvet and the warmth he had found beneath it, the memory of which seemed to mock him. But, when he could put it off no longer, he turned back and felt his way through the darkness.

He crawled up onto the other side of the bed, because, he decided, he’d save the mess on his sheets for the morning. He was already tempted to stay awake and didn’t need chores like that to encourage him. Finding the mattress, he stretched out his hand. His palm pressed into the pillow.

And he found, coiled beneath it, a chain: worn, still warm and wolves’ teeth, seven of them, bunched together in the center. 

Garrosh’s necklace. 

He closed his hand around it. Its metal lengths pressed into his palm, and, clinging to its heat, he remembered.


End file.
